


The Chemicals Between Us

by ficlicious



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Red Kryptonite, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficlicious/pseuds/ficlicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ollie self-destructs and Chloe sends Clark to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Part I: Surrender**

_I want you to remember_

_A love so full it could send us all ways_

_I want you to surrender_

_All my feelings rose today_

"He did it  _again_!"

Chloe's voice in his ear is annoyed, concerned. She has every right to be; League safety is her number one priority, after all. But she can't do her job without their cooperation. Lately, Oliver hasn't been cooperating too well. He disappears off the grid at the most inopportune times, removing tracker and earpiece, so long as there's a party to be had. The others chime in a moment later. A.C. doesn't understand, as usual. Bart offers to run him down and kick his ass. Victor's less enthusiastic, but his quiet support comes on the heels of Bart's.

Dinah stays quiet. And well she should, because it's all her fault anyway. He grimaces, telling himself he doesn't really know what happened, and he shouldn't judge. He hadn't been around for the beginning of their relationship, but the end was a trainwreck. Messy accusations and screaming matches. Dinah and the rest of the League weathered it better than Oliver did.

Still, it's easy to blame Dinah for breaking Ollie's heart.

"Boyscout."

He knew it was coming. Bart might have the speed to keep up with Oliver, but Oliver doesn't listen to him. Not like he listens to Clark. And Clark's the best one to send, if Oliver's feeling belligerent. Unless he's packing kryptonite, Clark can take whatever Oliver throws his way. He won't even hold a grudge the next day. Oliver isn't Lex; he's infinitely easier to forgive.

"Boyscout?"

Dammit. "Here, Watchtower. Do you have a destination for me?"

"Last known location was Vegas. If I had to wager a guess, he's on the Strip."

"I'll find him." Hopefully before he's poured himself into a bottle.

"Good luck, Boyscout."

"Amigo! Don't forget... What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Unless you want to leave the comm open. Then what happens in Vegas stays between us, if you know what I tmean." He can almost hear Bart's eyebrows waggling.

"I don't know what you mean." AC chimes in, confusion evident in his tone. Despite himself, Clark smiles. He mostly tunes out the explanation and subsequent debate as the world slows to a smear of color and sound around him. When AC mentions he really doesn't want to listen to Boyscout and Green Arrow having sex, Clark nearly runs headlong into a mountain. He turns the communicator off after that, lamely citing a need for radio silence. Some things, he just  _doesn't_  need to hear.

Or think about.

No matter how intriguing it sounds.

He doesn't need to think about that either.

How long has it been since he got laid anyway?

OOOOOOOOO

He detours through New Mexico to divert an arroyo, swollen with rain to flash-flood levels, from a small community, but even with the side trip, he makes excellent time. Air Krypton, Metropolis to Las Vegas via Rio Garde, twelve minutes. He's never been to Sin City before, not even the summer he spent hopped up on red K. The lights and the sounds are incredible, and just for a moment, Clark almost forgets why he came. He doesn't, because it's just not what he does, but for that brief second, it's tempting.

It's harder to filter voices in Vegas. The cries of the desperate, the debauch and the delirious hammer at his ears. Prayers to Lady Luck, gods of a thousand identities, pleas for a fortune to change and mercy to be shown. He steels himself against the worst of the cries for help. In a city as big, as busy, as Vegas, he could work as the Blur 24/7/365 and never be done. But he isn't here for them tonight. He's here for Ollie.

He narrows his focus, searching for that one voice, that unique heartbeat. Ollie is here somewhere, and Clark isn't going home empty-handed. He learns to ignore the deeper voices, the hearts that almost have that same trip-hammer, until only one remains.  _I'm Oliver fucking Queen, that's who I am. Now mix me another drink._  It's slurred with alcohol and spoiling for a fight, but it's Ollie and it's close. Clark takes a moment longer to orient himself, then blurs to the door of the club in time to see his quarry unceremoniously tossed out on his ear.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Smll miracles, he doesn't land in the puddle of standing booze and puke outside the club. He's already on thin ice with his drycleaner. The last thing he needs is another lecture about destroying designer clothing. Stupid Pablo, trying to save him money. Didn't he realize Oliver might as well crap hundred dollar bills, he's got so much to throw away?

He giggles at the image, except he never giggles. He has a manly chuckle, a chortle even. Giggles are for schoolgirls and psychopaths. And possibly Lex Luthor. Yeah. Out of all the schoolgirl psychopaths he knows, Lex is definitely the giggling type. Probably sits in that big wingback chair of his, brandy nearby, with his hand down his pants, giggling away at all the schoolgirl psychopathic plans he has.

Loser.

Oliver is tired of sitting on the pavement, so he stands. It only takes him three tries to do it, too. That bartender obviously doesn't know what drunk looks like. And he meant to stumble into the wall, really he did. He didn't mean to end up on his ass again, but no one has to know that.

 _No one_. With the thought of those two little words, the remnants of his good mood sinks into bleak depression. No one. That's who he has. That's who cares about him. That's who will drink with him. No one. He's in the capital city of sin, and he's completely alone.

A hand appears in his field of vision, so suddenly he reels back onto his elbows. For a second, he isn't sure how many fingers the hand has; his eyes refuse to focus. It wavers between four and eight for a few seconds, then finally resolves with five.

Wait a second... He knows that hand. He squints at it; it's broad and callused and poking out of a blue sleeve. He follows it up the arm - jacket still blue - over the shoulder and detour across that massive chest. He doesn't mean to stare; his mother taught him that staring was rude. He just didn't know chests came in super-mega-ultra XL. With pectorals on the side.

"Oliver..."

His name jerks his attention from the muscles and pecs up to the face. Black hair, tousled and getting a bit shaggy at the back. Piercing blue eyes with a disturbingly familiar expression: half concerned, half wry and half disappointed. Three halves aside, that expression is only that effective when it's on the face of one person.

"Clark!" Reinvigorated, practically bouncy, he bounds to his feet and throws both arms around Clark. What was he thinking, no one? Here's Clark, right in front of him! Clark cares. Clark's his  _buddy_. Clark will drink with him. Well...maybe not right away. Clark has a stick up his ass, all noble and self-righteous, but Oliver knows he can talk Clark into it.

He's not Oliver fucking Queen for nothing, after all.

"Clark! It's good to see you! How are you doing?"

"You dropped off the radar. Again." Classic Clark, ignoring a direct personal question in order to lay the guilt on thick. "We were worried."

He grins. "I'm fine, Clark. Just fine." He lingers over the word fine for a bit too long but he has a legitimate excuse. Clark's lips tighten with more disappointment, and it pulls Oliver's attention like a moth to a flame.

"You're drunk." Statement. Not a queston. "You need to go home and sleep it off."

"But mooooooom..." Clark doesn't look amused, so Oliver switches tactics. "You're probably right. It's no fun drinking alone anyway." He pauses, acts like he just thought of the idea. "I'll make you an offer. Have a drink with me, and I'll come quietly." Momentary indecision flickers through Clark's eyes and, sensing weakness, Oliver moves in for the kill before his opponent can recover.

He pulls out he puppy dog eyes. They have never failed to get him what he wants. Just to be safe, he amps it up, stopping just short of an actual pout. Clark sighs, and Oliver knows he won. "One drink," Clark says firmly. "Then you go home and sleep."

He tosses an arm carelessly over Clark's shoulder, turning up the wattage on his patented playboy grin. "Just one drink. I  _promise_."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The club is loud. Bodies gyrate on the floor, surreal motions in strobing reds and greens. Clark is instantly uncomfortable in Area 51. Maybe it's the sweaty press of the crowd, maybe it's the alien theme of the place, striking a little too close to home with his Kryptonian origins. Or maybe it's Oliver, three sheets to the wind and hanging around his neck like a blond, lopsided piece of bling. He's far too aware of Oliver's body plastered against him. They're practically one person from the hip down.

Damn that puppy dog look. It should be illegal to have eyes that soulful.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea, Oliver." He has been to practically scream over the throb of the bass. "I don't think they'll even serve you."

"That's why you're getting the drinks, Clark." Oliver's breath blows hot across his ear and Clark shivers involuntarily. Yet again, he chalks it up to his dry spell, but the excuse is wearing a little thin even to him. To distract himself from the thigh pressed into his and the alarming nearness of the other man's lips to his throat, he scans the dance floor to plan the quickest way through.

His attention immediately locks onto a couple grinding in the middle. Both men, the taller one has black hair and briad shoulders. His companion is blond and lean. Both are dressed to kill, and their movements leave little to the imagination. Clark's mouth goes dry and he licks his lips. Oliver doesn't help as he sways, half with the booze he's drunk and half with the music, bumping against his hip in eerie synchronity with the couple all but having sex on the floor. It doesn't take much imagination at all to envision other faces on them.

One drink, and he can escape. Dump Oliver in whatever ridiculously expensive penthouse he's rented at the Luxor or the Bellagio, and definitely  _not_  join him, then go take a swim in the Arctic. Maybe the Antarctic. Or Pluto.

Pluto sounds good.

"One drink!" He clings to that like a lifeline and hauls Oliver through the crowd to the bar. The woman behind the bar reminds him a little of Lois; they have the same cocky grin and a look in their eyes that says they'll take whatever crap you're slinging and shove it right back down your throat. The reminder of Lois is almost as effective as an ice water bath.

He scans the drink list written in rainbow neon on a whiteboad above the bar while the tender is busy at the other end. Already, he's intimidated and lost by their names. Warp Core Breach? Dark Side of the Force? Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster? Who names these things anyway? He catches sight of one called Artificial Intelligence and wonders if the answer to his question is Braniac.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Oliver smirking at him. "It's a space-themed bar, Clark," he says, and Clark wonders if Oliver's developed telepathy lately. "But you're going to want something off the menu. Tell her you want two out of this world cocktails."

He isn't sure he likes the glint in Oliver's eyes, but it's only one drink. The tender makes her way down and Clark repeats Oliver's order verbatim. She looks between the two of them. "You sure you boys can handle a drink that strong? It isn't for everyone."

Clark just wants the damn drink. The end of this ordeal is so close he can taste it. "I'll be fine," he says, just as Oliver chimes in with "He's fine." Clark shots a suspicious look Oliver's way; was there a note of something...intimate in 'fine'? No, just his ears playing tricks.

The girl does arcane things behind the bar, and eventually puts two tall glasses on the bar. The mixture smells of citrus and rum, layered in shades of red, gold and orange. The straw is red and green, a swizzle stick of crystalline rum. Clark sniffs his suspiciously, but super-smell has never been in his power portfolio.

Oliver is already sucking on his swizzle stick. "Just drink it, Clark. Remember, the sooner you do, the sooner we leave."

He closes his eyes and sighs, removes the stick and picks up the glass. He sniffs again but still can't smell anything beyond pineapple and the slight tang of alcohol. Apprehension settles into his stomach. Alcohol doesn't affect him - he could empty a distillery and not feel even slightly buzzed - but he still doesn't think this is a good idea.

One more glance at Oliver settles him once and for all. The blond is smirking around the rum straw, obviously expecting him to chicken out. He firms his shoulders, puts the glass to his mouth and says, "One drink."

OOOOOOOOOOO

All in all, Oliver is proud of himself. For a minute there, he didn't think Clark would do it. The boy scout was so morally uptight, so intent on repressing his need to loosen up, Oliver thought he'd be hauled back to his penthouse suite and be forced to sleep it off. He knows, out of all the League, only Clark has the strength and the intractable nature to resist Oliver's charms. Bart would have capitulated immediately. A.C. likewise wouldn't require much convincing. Victor might have resisted, but Oliver knew him well enough to know which buttons to push. Chloe would also likely be resistant, not to mention annoying, but once Oliver got her to have a few drinks, it would have been party time.

He isn't going to think about Dinah. That trip down memory lane is a nightmare waiting to happen.

Instead, he watches as Clark tilts his head back and downs the concoction in one long, smooth motion. He wonders what else he can talk Clark into doing. Another drink? Getting rid of the flannel and primary colors? Slamming Oliver up against the wall and having his way with him? He's gotten Clark to unbend this much; the world is his oyster.

He stares, fascinated, at Clark's throat, watching the interplay of muscles as the drink slides down. He watches, breathless, as Clark's eyes close and those long lashes are a smoky smudge against his cheekbones. He watches, confused, as Clark's eyes snap open in panic. Then one of the red lights strobing through the club reflects from his eyes, and Clark's face changes.

It's nothing drastic, but the pinched, uncomfortable look disappears and a confident, self-assured expression replaces it. He shakes his head as if to clear it, hisses in a breath and lets it out between his teeth. "Woo, that packed a punch." He bangs the glass onto the bar and leans against it on his elbow, signaling to the bartender. "Another one, sweetheart. For me and my friend."

Oliver feels control slipping, however tenuous his hold had been. "I thought you said only one drink," he says.

Clark turns to lean both elbows against the bar. He isn't walking, but his slouch has a swagger to it. Oliver swallows hard, tries to cover it with his drink. "Changed my mind, handsome." Oliver very nearly spits his drink all over the bar, but before he can reply, Clark continues. "Besides, you were right. I do need to loosen up a little. And there's no better company in the world to do it with."

Oliver doesn't know what to make of it, but he's saved from having to think of something to say. The bartender comes back with their drinks, and Clark takes a long swallow. "It's no fun drinking alone," he says with a pointed look at Oliver, and the drink in his hand. "You need to catch up so we can get out on the dance floor."

That's it, there's definitely something wrong. Oliver isn't so drunk he misses it. Clark Kent does not dance.  _Ever_. He frowns. "Clark, are you alright?"

Clark smiles, and Oliver's pulse skips. That particular smile, oozing sex and confidence, needs to be registered as a lethal weapon. "Never been better, Ollie." Clark never calls him Ollie. Clark also never hooks an arm around Oliver's waist and pulls him flush, but it's apparently a night for the impossible to happen, because that's exactly what he does.

Oliver squeaks, not that he'll ever admit it, as Clark's arm tightens. He forgets how to breathe when Clark sets his drink down and rolls his hips into Oliver's crotch. He nearly passes out as all his blood rushes south of the border to bring him harder than he's ever been in his life, and Clark laughs in delight when Oliver moans softly.

"It's been a long time since I cut loose, Ollie," he says, "so I've got some oats to sow. But I want you to keep up, because at the end of the night, I want you naked and screaming my name. Got it?"

Oliver doesn't get it, but his brain isn't running the show anymore. The booze isn't, either. It's all on the raging erection and the lust now. He's nodding without having to think about it. "Whatever you say, Clark," he manages.

Clark pauses. "Do me a favor, Ollie." He closes those last couple of inches and kisses Oliver like he means to devour him, tongue plundering and teeth nipping. Oliver's last thought functions vanish under the assault, but he knows he's going to do whatever Clark asks. Sign over Queen Industries? Give him a pen. Let Clark lead him around with a collar and chain? In a heartbeat. Bend over and take it like a prison bitch? Oh god,  _yes_.

As suddenly as it started, the brutal kiss is over, leaving Oliver reeling and panting and needing. "What favor?" he croaks.

Clark's eyes gleam and his grin promises sinful, sweaty things in the very near future. "Call me Kal."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a new chapter. I'm pretty sure I wrote this an age ago, and just never got around to posting it over here. I might get back to this someday; in the meantime, as complete as it gets right now.

**Title** : The Chemicals Between Us

 **Word** **Count** :

 **Rating** : Very, very R

 **Spoilers** : Assumes familiarity with up to Season 9.

 **Warnings** : m/m, language, adult situations

 **Summary** : If Oliver knew how much fun Clark was when he was like this, he would have gotten him drunk long before now.

 _And I want you to remain_  
The power of children can amaze  
I'll try not to complain  
I know that's a pisser baby

If Oliver knew how much fun Clark was when he was like this, he would have gotten him drunk long before now. Deep in the part of his brain that he hadn't spent the best portion of the night pickling, he knows something is wrong. Clark is never this free, never this exciting. He's dull and run-of-the-mill and tiresomely wholesome. But that part of Oliver's brain is tiny, and the rest of Oliver is finding it hard to care. Clark has manhandled him several times in very exciting ways, effectively distracting him from giving a shit about how _not-normal_ this was for Clark.

Call-Me-Kal is sex on legs and hell on wheels. Oliver will never admit it, but he struggles to keep up.

They are separate now. Oliver waits by the bar, unsteady on his feet, as he sips his Out of This World. He is watching Clark stride through the sweaty, heaving throng on the dance floor, a god accepting adulation from the lesser minions he deigns to gift with his presence. The bass thrums through the club, a heavy sultry beat. Oliver can feel it through the soles of his shoes, can feel it in his blood. His eyes slide to half-mast, swaying unconsciously with the beat. It's hypnotic, seductive, and dammit, where the hell did Clark go? He slams back the rest of his drink, feeling it tingle pleasantly all the way down, as he scans the dance floor.

A hand grabs his hip and spins him around. Before he can do more than suck in a breath, he's flush against a very solid chest (super-ultra-mega XL, his brain supplies helpfully), staring into glittering eyes. All the blood rushes south and he's clinging to biceps big enough to make an elephant jealous before he realizes this isn't Clark.

 _They grow them big in Vegas_ goes through his bewildered mind as he tries to process the military-short black hair, the strong jawline and the fuck-me pout of heavy lips. The guy is good-looking, no doubt about that, and on another, lonely night, Ollie might have taken him up on his very explicit offer to visit a dark alleyway for a quick romp in the smog. But tonight, Ollie is waiting for a Greek god muscled from a lifetime of farm chores and sweaty from hours on the dance floor. And he is definitely not interested in anything less than that Greek god. Not even Adonis.

But Adonis leans in and whispers in his ear, suggestions that, with the hint of a Kansas twang, would make his blood spontaneously combust, and it doesn't matter because his blood _is_ burning and his cock is rising and he's nodding his head emphatically, saying _yes yes yes let's do it_ and he doesn't know why.

He's drunk and he knows it, knows he should call for Clark, Kal, whoever he is today, because he obviously cannot make sound decisions for himself. Self-destructive Ollie, Oliver _fucking_ Queen, running out on the finest piece of ass he could ever hope to moan under. Skulking like a sheep out the side door with someone he shouldn't even be looking at twice.

He knows something is wrong, screams it in the back of his head with the same voice that knows there's something wrong with Clark, but he follows the blond out the door, clammy hand clutching smooth, warm fingers.

_What. Am. I. Doing?_

His back hits the rough brick of the alley, and Adonis kneels in front of him, and his fingers are running along the rough peach-fuzz of Adonis's buzz cut. His heart trip-hammers in his throat, and he can't catch his breath. A pleasant fog has settled over his mind, humming with pleasure as Adonis lifts him out of the strangling confines of his pants and engulfs his entire length in a hot, wet mouth and _holy shit_ there goes thinking for the foreseeable future.

His breath hisses out from between gritted teeth, and his hands are petting frantic streaks in Adonis's hair. Oliver's head slams back against the bricks as the tip of his cock nudges down Adonis's throat, and it's hard enough to cut through the fog. Just for a moment, he can think clearly. Drunkenly, maybe, but clearly. And he knows that, no matter how expert Adonis is at sucking dick, this is not the mouth he wants around him. As the fog overlays his mind again, he has the wherewithal to exhale a single name:

_Kal…_

And then Kal, Clark, whoever the hell he is tonight is _there_ , a wrathful deity picking up Adonis with one massive hand and flinging him away. His support abruptly gone, Oliver slides down the wall, dick hanging out of the opened zipper of his pants, staring up at Clark with adoring awe.

Clark stares back down at him, all unreadable eyes and chiseled cheeks. He doesn't look happy, that much registers in Oliver's brain, but he reaches down and hauls Oliver back up on his feet anyway. "What the hell was that?"

Oliver shakes his head, and the world swims dizzyingly. "I don't know," he manages to say, closing his eyes against the spin. Nausea chokes his throat, but it isn't too-much-to-drink nausea. He knows the burn of that. This is different, this is new. This is not something he has ever felt before. This is-

Oh. _Oh._

With a start, he realizes it's shame.

He opens them again as Clark's hand slides against his cheek, and blinks to refocus them as Clark's face is very close, closer than Oliver expected it to be. There's something readable there now, lurking behind blue eyes, something that speaks of possessiveness and want.

"I don't share, Ollie," he says. His voice is soft but hard, an audible Mount Everest in weight and implacability. "I thought you knew that."

"I don't… I didn't…" Oliver is confused. He is trying to process what has happened so far, but gets tangled up around the bar and the guy who isn't Clark and it's all a haze after that. And then it all gets derailed when Clark presses against him, pressing him into the wall, holding him there with his chest and legs and arms.

"You belong to me now," Clark says, and Oliver is nodding, yes, yes he is. Because the confusion is leaving now, and certainty sets into its place. Oliver Queen is nobody's pet, nobody's plaything, but maybe he isn't Oliver Queen because he knows that all those rules are thrown right out the window when it comes to Clark.

But he _is_ Oliver Queen, Oliver _fucking_ Queen, and he has to push the limits. He doesn't know any other way to be. Maybe it's the booze, maybe it's just Clark, but somewhere, Oliver finds the wherewithal to clear his throat, look up and say, "Don't keep me waiting, then." He knows it's wrong, he knows it's the pressing buttons and shoving at the boundaries of this thing that's happening tonight, but he can't help himself. His mouth has the leash now, and it's running away, and he wouldn't even begin to know how to stop it if he tried. "I get easily distracted. I'm very high-maintenance."

Clark stares down at him, and Oliver resists the urge to squirm, to writhe, to beg in abject humiliation for forgiveness. But then Clark's mouth twists up in a sideways grin that would melt steel, and all is right in Oliver's world again. "Fair enough," he murmurs, and his mouth is so close to Oliver's he's having trouble thinking again. "But there's a problem."

"Problem?" The only problem Oliver can fathom at the moment is that they're both still clothed and not sweaty and loud in a bed in his penthouse suite at the Four Seasons.

And then – oh god – Clark's hand is sliding down his chest and Oliver quivers with anticipation, knowing the path those fingers are traveling. Clark takes his time, lingers over Oliver's abdomen, tracing the lines of the six-pack Oliver has to work like a beast to maintain, and then he's got Oliver's cock in his palm. His skin is warm, hot, sun-seared, and Oliver's hips buck forward, his shoulders slamming back against the wall. A moan breaks free from his throat and his eyes flutter in his head. His body knows the touch of its master, and it's embarrassing, but if Clark keeps doing that for thirty more seconds, Oliver is going to have a mess to clean up.

But Clark squeezes, lightly. Part of Oliver likes that very much, and a high whine emerges, nasally and needy. But the rest of Oliver is suddenly very aware that Clark can punch through an asteroid if he's in the mood, and Oliver's favorite body part is cupped in hands that could pop him like a grape.

(The first part of Oliver still likes this very much, and sends a new surge of arousal screaming through his veins. Oliver isn't sure what he's supposed to be listening to now: the raging lust, or the terrified self-preservation.)

"This is mine," Clark is saying, his breath hot on Oliver's earlobe, and the flick of a hot, wet tongue sends Oliver careening to the brink of orgasm. A shudder wrenches his spine, delicious and helpless. He can barely hear Clark over the moans coming from him, the moans of a wanton thing. "No one else touches it, do you understand me?"

"Fuck, god, whatever you say, Clark." He is gasping, can barely get the words out. His hips are pistoning, trying to pump his length through Clark's hand, but Clark holds him still with a warning squeeze. The urge to spurt everywhere like a horny teenager dies off a bit, enough that Oliver can open his eyes and think a little straighter.

Clark is smiling as he tucks Oliver back into his pants and condescendingly zips him back up. Oliver makes a noise of protest, once the action processes through his lust-addled brain, but Clark just pats Oliver's crotch and grins wider. "Good boy. The night is still young, and I still want you naked and moaning at the end of it. Can you keep up?"

Oliver isn't sure he possesses the verbal skills to answer, so he settles for a very enthusiastic bout of nodding. He spares a single glance towards the part of the alley where Clark threw Adonis, and confusion –or maybe the booze—swirls the world around him again. He still doesn't know what happened there, but he decides he doesn't care right now.

Clark wants him to keep up. Oliver is an overachiever by nature. He'll _fly_ if he has to.


End file.
